


If My Heart Should Somehow Stop

by FancyPants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Slash, Mild Language, Mystery, POV Third Person, Post Reichenbach, Revenge, Sherlock's return, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyPants/pseuds/FancyPants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been nearly 3 year's since The Fall at St Bart's. Between the struggle of proving his deceased friends innocence, avoiding domestic terrorist bombings, and struggling with the reappearance of his PTSD, John Watson has lost all hope in living. After tasting death, John is provided a new occupation by Mycroft to work an undercover case. Beside a Professor at a London University, they will try to discover the root of the domestic terrorist organization. As odd and unexpected as this case might be, John may discover a bit more than he had bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch.tumblr.com

A brisk winter chill travelled down Baker Street, and entered the vulnerable open windows of 221B. The warn curtains lifted up and a stack of disarrayed fliers, newspapers, and files blew from the unused dining table, joining a pile of picket signs on the dulled carpet. “Suicide of a Fake Genius” “File #22: Alias James Moriarty” “Richard Brooke Reads for Children’s Hospital” “Moriarty Was Real” were but a few of the boldly printed titles along the papers. Empty containers of spray paint littered the floor where they left stains on the carpet and also a message on the wall beside the fading smiling face. “I Believe in Sherlock.”  
The only sign of life in the deathly cold flat was found at the foot of what once was Sherlock’s chair. Fresh blood settled where it had been shamelessly splattered along the leather, and a note rested beside it, its word’s would be John Watson’s last. That is what people did, that was what Sherlock had made so painfully clear to him. He was no greater man than Sherlock had been, he didn’t have the guts to go without a goodbye. Though the note was unsuitable and pointless to whoever would be unlucky enough to find him in the next few hours.  
John’s breath was erratic as his heart raced and his brain buzzed, he was completely unkempt, his face grown long with an untamed beard, bottles of spent alcohol beside him, and this was who John Watson was now, this was how low he had fallen and there was but one thing he could do to fix it. John took a deep breath but his body trembled and he flexed his right hand as it began to tremor. He shut his eyes, telling every rational part of him to shut up and accept the fact that everything would be over soon.  
Tears fell from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks, and he was suddenly pleased with the thought of dying. He would never have to cry again, never have to struggle through a world filled with fool’s who had bought into the greatest lie. He would never have to struggle with his leg and the insufferable tremor, and the guilt, and the fear, and the god damned pain. It was a permanent solution to what he knew where temporary problems, but it was just too painful to live any longer, knowing what he knew. John found some comfort as he watched the blood from his right wrist puddle along the carpet. He smiled, the tears continued to pour down his face and he raised his head to rest against Sherlock’s chair, closing his eyes and whispering, “I’m coming, Sherlock.”

~~~~~

Everything had gone black, this was what John wanted, what he needed, this was the emptiness that he craved and he would be happy even if Sherlock wasn’t on the other side. He would undoubtedly be in Hell if there were another side, the bastard. Something was wrong though. The buzzing John had felt in his brain, it hadn’t left. It rang through his psyche and was quite discomforting. He wondered when it would vanish, but as he tried to rationalize the buzz he realized that he recognized that particular sound. And that’s what it was, not a buzz in his brain but a buzz from outside, ringing into his ears.  
John’s mouth opened, taking in a deep gasp as the darkness was purged with a blinding light. His body shook in a struggled shock as his dark paradise was ripped away from him and he realized what the blaring buzz had been. He panted eyes wide open and soon narrowing into a cold glare at the sight above him. It was an iridescent light beam that flickered and buzzed as if taunting him back to life. John’s surroundings overwhelmed him as he realized he was in a hospital, and not just any hospital, but the very place he once worked. He tried to raise his wrists to cover his face from the insulting light above him, but they felt like dead weights, not to mention they were safely cuffed to the handles of his hospital bed to ensure he wouldn’t continue in his self-harm.  
John groaned low in his throat and the rage began to overtake his weak mind and body. He looked to the side, seeing a red pouch of conveniently donated blood from unknown strangers willing him back to life. John was disgusted, now he really did want to die. It was only a matter of time before Sarah walked through those white curtains, or maybe it would be Molly, or- The curtains were swiftly pulled aside, and speak of the devil, perhaps John really was in Hell.  
The long, pale, Queen himself stood before John, dark umbrella in hand, and nose raised high as ever, observing the red eyed, unkempt, post suicidal John Watson who would have readily grabbed the man by the throat if his body and circumstances had graced the idea. Mycroft took a step toward John’s bedside. John could literally feel his skin crawl, and he wished the cuffs would spring free, if not to strangle the man, then to cover his own ears with his palms. Because whatever this man had to say, it was the last thing John Watson wanted to hear.  
He suddenly wished it had been Molly or Sarah to walk through those curtains because at least he would hear their soft lovely voices and been able to lean on their soft lovely breasts as they consoled him with all their useless, empty, emotional words. No, it had to be, of all people, Mycroft fucking Holmes, and whatever this bastard had to say to John he wished he would just use his rational mind for something useful this once and leave!  
Mycroft spoke calmly as he tapped the damned umbrella stem on the tile floor, and John couldn’t block it out as the cuffs did their job by holding his wrists prisoner. “Welcome back, John.”  
There it was, John could feel the little blood in his veins struggle to boil, and he glared at Mycroft, hoping that every ounce of contempt he had toward the man was being communicated.  
“I thought you were a medical man, John, you didn’t cut deep at all, or were you trying to avoid the major arteries?” Mycroft was simply observing, that’s what the Holmes’ did, but John took it as another shot at belittling him, especially in his current state. “I see you have little strength… you can’t even properly talk, can you?”  
John’s hand’s struggled to flex into fists so he simply dug his nails into the dry mattress cloth beneath him, and he chewed his inner lip in hate. “What… do you want… Mycroft?” He realized how parched his throat was, and yes, his tongue wasn’t working the way it should, but he’d be damned if he’d let Mycroft have the last word.  
“I think it should be obvious, I’m taking a precious bit of time out of my day to pay my dearest friend a visit. I thought you might like to know, you’ve been out cold for the last 36 hours. It’s to be expected though. You’re lucky I keep such a watchful eye on you or no one might have come with the way you’ve been behaving recently.” Mycroft nodded, matter-of-factly, and it wasn’t giving him any gold stars in John’s book.  
John took a breath through his nose, and shut his eyes, he longed for the deep darkness, the constant silence. He would never get any of that relief back while still alive. “Lucky? Did it… ever occur to you… that I may have… wanted to die? That was the point… and now what?”  
“You continue to live, John. Reality isn’t the most pleasant of places, but we are not alone, we all struggle through it together.”  
“No. I am alone.” John opened his eyes once again, turning them toward Mycroft, his tone dark and serious. “You see… but you do not observe. I am the last person… in this world… that believes in him… not even you’ve attempted… to aid his name. I wonder what he… would say.” With every word, John grew weaker, he continued to breathe deeply.  
“There is no need to linger on the past, John.”  
And he could have fucking cried out, until his veins burst, until every nerve in his body was shot, and the tears burnt his eyes, and he had, for 2 years and five months he had done nothing but cry out, and for once he was too weak to do so. The silence was infuriating. He fought back the tears, his body gently shaking.  
“You are… so… unbelievably heartless. Please… leave me, you are… the last person… I would ever… wish to see.” John could feel his voice waver, his emotions peaking as he struggled to find the words.  
The tall man pulled out a file from his briefcase and held it toward John for him to examine, but his eyes stayed glued to the ceiling, at that repulsive buzzing light above him. “In the circumstances, Lestrade and I have agreed to get you involved in a new case.” The file rested on the table beside John’s bed. “It will be a good preoccupation, John, and I believe the subject will fascinate you. My brother may be gone, but he taught you everything he knows. If you want to do good in his memory, you can use those powers to continue solving cases and helping society.”  
“If it’s… so important… why don’t you do it?”  
With that, Mycroft lifted his briefcase and headed toward the curtains. “Because I already have many preoccupations, John. You need this, and whether you like it or not, we need you.”  
He was gone, and John ached to the very pit of his soul.

~~~~~~  
The young professor stifled a shiver as he stepped out from his car onto the cold pavement. He held his coat against him, his body thin and long, yet he was still surprised at how the wind seemed to travel right through him. He looked toward the small café, located a few miles on the outskirts of London, it was modern, yet warm, and he yearned to dwell within the walls. He was familiar with their tea and biscuits, and the thought of the simple comfort made him salivate. He swiftly stepped inside, and felt his iced nose and cheeks warm instantly as he turned toward the fireplace, finding a suitable seat for himself and his appointed guest.  
He was fortunate to get the attention of a nearby waiter. After the boy collected his coat and scarf it took but a few minutes for the waiter to return with his desired set of tea and biscuits. On any other afternoon the professor would have been reserved with the idea of food, but with the chill, his nerves made him much more eager. He prepared the tea to his liking, and sipped the cup till his lips, throat, and stomach were warmed to satisfaction.  
With a sigh, he withdrew his spectacles, and ran his fingers through his dark brown hair that was styled to lay flat and uniform on his head. As he wiped his glasses with his napkin, he observed the people around him, his brain buzzing with deductions, and he was pleased that he hadn’t grown rusty at his one of a kind art. He continued to sip his tea, glancing at his watch once or twice, hoping his colleague had gotten into some horrid accident and died, but he never had much luck when it came to others misfortune.  
The wind was violent outside, but it had yet to snow in the past month. The roads were slushed and paved with dangerous ice, and the weather was atrocious and miserable to spend more than a few minutes out in the thick of it. Dry leaves flew about, and soon the man he’d been waiting for could be seen stepping onto the cement from the black car he was valet in. As soon as he entered the café the professor sat up straight as a bow, his eyes cold and focusing on stirring his tea rather than acknowledge the other man’s presence.  
“Good afternoon, Professor Cumberbatch.” The tall man muttered with dry amusement.  
“Mycroft.” Was the only greeting the Professor offered.  
The loyal waiter returned, collecting Mycroft’s coat but being turned away when he offered to take the man’s umbrella. After declining his order, Mycroft found his seat, twiddling with his umbrella as he observed the man across from him. “I really do think you could have chosen a better name. Benedict Cumberbatch? You find your work that comical do you?”  
“It’s worked out, hasn’t it?” The Professor informed, taking another gulp of tea.  
Mycroft raised his eyes toward Cumberbatch, fingers twisting his umbrella in circles. “You are constantly watched, I doubt Moriarty’s spies find your taunting very amusing.”  
A deep chuckle came from Cumberbatch’s throat and he took in Mycroft with a sense of distaste. “I am being watched, but only from your people. You wouldn’t be mentioning the man’s name if any of his lackey’s were in a 100 mile radius. You have five men inside this room right now, and eight outside with pistols ready. This is my last alias, Mycroft, I may as well indulge in your pointless sense of security while I have the chance.”  
“I’m so glad you still find my responsibility’s to the crown and civilian lively hood humorous, Professor Cumberbatch.”  
The tension changed at Mycroft’s words and Cumberbatch spoke this time with purpose. “You phoned me, Mycroft. You were ever so eager to meet with me today, so tell me what news you have that is so desperately worth my time.”  
Mycroft grew quiet and still, his arrogance fading as he deeply pondered his next words. “It’s a delicate situation.”  
“Again, your sentiment for you government work amuses me.”  
“No, Sh-… Benedict, this isn’t about my work. It’s about John.” Mycroft stared at the man across from him, analyzing the complete turn of hand as the name sunk in.  
He could tell Cumberbatch was struggling to hide what care he had, but it was useless, and the name had shaken him to the core. Benedict quickly looked down at his tray, cocking an eyebrow, grasping at what gestures he had left to make up his foreground. “What’s happened…?”  
Mycroft took a moment before answering with a calm quiet tone. “John attempted suicide, Sherlock. Just over 8 hours ago.”  
There was nothing left to hide as Sherlock met Mycroft’s gaze in a state of cold shock, his crystal blue eyes bright and paling at the thought. “John.”  
“Because of my invaluable security, he was found just in time. He’s safe, though I use that word loosely, because despite the fact that you’ve avoided Moriarty’s men could mean that they have simply refocused. John is no longer safe, not even to himself, you have a job to do, Sherlock, and you’ve taken too much time to finish this.”  
“Where-“  
“As I said, he’s safe, at the local hospital. Though he’s still in a coma state, he will be awake within the next few days.”  
Sherlock leaned back, still in a state of disbelief. He stroked his top lip gently as his breath quivered at the thought of his dearest friend. “I don’t… understand, why would he…”  
“It’s not exactly complicated, and there’s no reason to beat around the bush, you’ve done this to him, Sherlock.” Their eyes caught then. “I have no desire to withdraw the rationality of this discussion, which is why I am telling you the facts. You have one last job to do, it’s up to you how you wish to carry it out, but John Watson cannot wait any longer.”  
Sherlock turned his cheek toward his brother, staring at the rapid flames reaching upward from the fireplace. If it were up to him, he would be home now, he would have been home a year ago, but Moriarty’s web was thick and complex. It was a challenge, even for himself, and it was his cross to bear. No one else would understand the depth of this situation. To end this game wouldn’t be that simple, even though he was convinced he was at check mate. Sherlock was brought back to reality as Mycroft slid a small brown envelope across the table. Sherlock stared at it in silence before reaching forward to grasp it, but Mycroft withdrew it slightly in response.  
“In your own time, brother.” Mycroft emphasized before sliding it forward and leaving it there. He left after retrieving his coat, and with his umbrella in hand, he reentered the black vehicle and was gone.  
Sherlock sat still, glancing gingerly at the sealed letter at his right hand. What he would give to rip it open at that moment, but he wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction. The spies were still in the café and he knew they would report to his brother as soon as he made a scheduled move. So he waited. An hour became two, and he observed as the security officials exited the café one by one onto the cold streets. With the letter in hand, Sherlock gathered his coat and scarf, left the building and headed straight to his car, climbing in and driving off to a more secluded area of the town.  
The letter was heavy in his hand now as he broke the seal and unfolded it. He removed his faux spectacles as he began to read the rough ink writing.

“I’m a coward, because of you, because of this life that I am forced to live without you. I’ve always been your fool, and now I’m writing a note to a dead man. I don’t think there has been a more pathetic suicide, but you left me a note, and despite the fact that you will never read it, this note is for you. I’m exhausted and the pain won’t stop. At time’s I can’t tell the difference between reality and my nightmares. But because you are alive in my dreams, however horrible they are, I can’t help but long to remain asleep, because you are there. If I wake up, it still feels like a nightmare, because you are dead, and there’s nothing I could do to change that. I’m tired of being responsible for the weight I am carrying alone. You were never there for me, dead or alive, and yet I still fight to believe in you. I see no more reasons to fight for a dead man, and though I am scared to die and reside permanently in my nightmares, I know you’ll be there waiting for me. You will never come for me, so I will come to you.  
\- John Hamish Watson”

The letter shook in Sherlock’s hand and he bowed his head as the tears streamed hot down his cheeks. His fist struck the wheel of his car, and he groaned miserably behind gritted teeth. The words burned into his mind, but the worst of the letter was what it didn’t say. John had become an alcoholic, his tremor had returned, as well as his limp. It was all clear as day through the state of the writing and the folds of the letter. If Sherlock hadn’t known better, he might have not even been able to recognize it. John’s penmanship had always been clean, and now it was a wreck; a mirror image of who he had become since Sherlock had abandoned him.  
Sherlock attempted to breathe and get control of the emotions he had kept pent up for nearly 3 years. He groaned out loud and could hear the tears hit his chest and legs as he shook his head in remorse. He struggled to catch the falling tears on his coat sleeve while he held the letter and faux spectacles in his pale fingers.  
Had it been Lestrade, Sherlock would have been unwilling to break. Had it been Mrs. Hudson, he would have excused it for her old age, but this was his John. His John had been hurt. The circumstances made no difference to Sherlock, he needed to protect him. Sherlock took focused breaths as the tears ceased to fall, and he folded the letter back together, holding it to his lips. Sherlock had given his life for John, he would do anything to defend him. As he took the time to escape to his Mind Palace, he noted a new plan to save his one and only John.


	2. The Odd Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch.tumblr.com

John ate the horridly bland yogurt and fruit the hospital had supplied him. It had been 2 days since John had awoken from his coma state. He gained back his strength, but inside he had yet to make a full recovery. The cuffs had been kept attached to his wrists, but would be extended during meals, in which Sarah had loyally been a daily witness. She had been very helpful to John, if she weren’t there to console him, he would have made the nurses lives a living hell.  
Sarah usually wouldn’t talk; she would simply sit back in a chair against the wall and read a book. Sometimes she would eat her own lunch, share her good biscuits and tea, and assist whenever a nurse decided John needed handling. She had taken the liberty earlier today to shave John’s beard, revealing his familiar face again. She kissed his smooth cheeks tenderly before kissing his lips. It had really felt amazing, and John understood it as nothing more than a friendly gesture. Through those kisses, Sarah said all the words she desperately wanted to say. “Thank God you’re here.” “How could you do such a thing?” “I love you, it will all be alright.”  
As he set his emptied yogurt down on the tray, he stared at her. She had aged a bit in the 2 years, and was now adorned with a beautiful diamond ring on her wedding finger. She had gotten engaged 4 months ago and John was happy for her, she deserved it. He couldn’t help but feel guilty though, instead of managing the office or spending the afternoon break with her fiancée, she was taking this time to help John. He didn’t deserve any love, time or care. He had betrayed everyone who ever loved him.  
John suffered through a visit from his sister who had done her job to preach empty words and cry ugly tears. She forced him to Skype their parent’s, and the torture continued. Molly stopped by, sweet and genuine, but nervous and awkward as always. She had brought him flowers and took time to hug him close and tight.  
Mrs. Hudson did not come; she had passed away just over a month ago. Sherlock’s death was just as hard for her as it was for John and she grew old and feeble. John hadn’t been there for her as a doctor; he had left work long ago, and dedicated his life to proving Sherlock’s innocence. He’d disappointed so many people, and for what, a dead man who hardly anyone remembered.  
“I’m sorry, Sarah.” He whispered while leaning back on his raised bed.  
She looked up from her book in surprise. These were the first word’s he had spoken to her since he woke up. “John.” She closed it and stepped over to him, grasping his good hand firmly.  
He held hers in return with both his hands, drawing it to his lips and kissed it. “I just… wanted to be with him again.”  
Tears formed in her eyes and she held him near with her spare hand, stroking his hair tenderly. “Oh John… I know.”  
He pressed his face to her collar bone, her hands soothing him. “I feel less of a man for not going through with it. I couldn’t get it right… I didn’t get any of it right. I couldn’t even save him.”  
“John, John, listen to me.” Sarah gasped between tears as she held his face. “You have to stay here… Sherlock made his choice, he was selfish, but you are not him. You are one of the best men I’ve ever known, and we all love you. Please, John, don’t do this again, if not for you than for me.”  
John held his bottom lip, fighting back his tears, nodding heavily. She kissed his head, sniffling and nuzzling against him. He stroked her long hair, and felt her warm skin, wishing it was Sherlock in his arms. His hand began to shake and he tucked it beneath his leg, Sarah noticed and withdrew. She laughed gently, wiping her face. “God, look at me… I’m a wreck.”  
John smiled fondly up at her. “No, Sarah. I’m the wreck.”  
“It will get better, John.”  
Just as his lips began to fall into a frown, the door was opened. “Greg?”  
Lestrade grinned softly, stepping over to his bedside. “John, how are you doing mate?”  
“As good as I can… I guess. Getting my strength back.” He lacked optimism in his words but didn’t show spite towards Lestrade, who had remained one of his allies in the past few years.  
“Good to see you Detective Inspector.” Sarah said with a welcoming smile. “I’ll leave you two.” She gave John a reassuring glance, before leaving the room, still fussing over the stained mascara beneath her eyes.  
Greg grabbed a spare seat from the wall and brought it toward John’s bedside. His hair was clearly thinning out, the work load had definitely grown heavier with the bombings in the recent months. It started with a subway bombing just outside of south London, few casualties, many injured, but they had been spared for the remainder of that month. Then there were bombings that took place on two planes and at a court hearing, and just this month there was a bombing at a fire department west of London.  
Lestrade had gotten his best men on to it, the investigation was their main priority, but no connections or assailants had come forward, just speculation. The entire city had changed; people were honestly frightened that they would experience the next attack. Many Londoner’s had left for neighboring country’s but John remained. He would never leave London, or Baker Street, or the dreaded flat that did nothing but remind him of the life lost. Sherlock was the only man who could have been useful to Lestrade and their country at a time like this, but he was dead.  
Greg appeared very exhausted though he was putting on a brave face. “I’m sorry, John. I should have been there for you more than I have been in the past year.”  
This surprised John who couldn’t contain a strange look in response. “Greg, what are you talking about? What happened… it had nothing to do with you.”  
“Even so, I’ve been forced to make changes since the bombings started. I was able to check up on you more before all this.”  
John couldn’t help but grow a bit irritated. “It’s your job, Greg. I never needed a watch dog, and I still don’t need one.” He saw Lestrade try to interject so he raised his voice just a bit higher. “It was my decision. You sitting me wouldn’t have made a difference.”  
It grew quiet and Lestrade looked down at his hands in submission. John was glad he finally understood. “The last thing I need is the people I love blaming themselves. It has nothing to do with the lot of you.” John’s hand shook madly below his thigh. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand facing you lot. It’s worse than going through with it in the first place.” With the cuffs extended he could cover his face with his hands. “I knew there would be consequences, but I didn’t want to face any of it.”  
It remained quiet for a few more minutes before Greg muttered under his breath. “I need you, John.” When John had finally looked towards Greg he continued. “Mycroft left you a file I take it.”  
John twitched at the name but glanced to the file that had stayed untouched for the past few days on the counter beside him. “Yes. I haven’t taken the time to look at it.” He set aside his tray and gave into his curiosity by grasping the file and opening it on his lap. There were photographs of this month’s most recent bombings and as he sifted through the papers he found older reports dating back to the first.  
“We’re lacking information for these last few attacks but all the information we have should be in that file.”  
John snorted and he contained an amused sigh as he shut the file closed and smiled at the ceiling above him. “What is this, Greg? Why are you giving me this?”  
Lestrade shifted in his seat, “You know why, John. Even if you had the will to go on with this movement of yours, no one is listening. More than half of London has gone stark-raving-mad and you’ve done nothing but hide away in that wasted flat with your whiskey and your new found hate for all of humanity.” Although everything he said was true it didn’t make any of it easier for John to hear. “You’re a great man, and I know you can find a way to turn all this around and help others again. I need you to help me John. Sherlock’s skills would be completely lost if you were gone.”  
“What exactly are you asking of me, Greg?” John asked, the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.  
Greg changed tactic, he had John, what little was left of the man. He would do this. “We have traced back connections of these bombings to a particular University within London. It’s the LAMDA, and I know that might sound ridiculous, but we already have a man working undercover for us. Mycroft wants you to work alongside him to get to the bottom of this.”  
“I will not do anything Mycroft requests.”  
“Then do it for me, John, for your country. This is a small step toward discovering the root of these attacks. People will continue to die unless you help, and only you John.”  
John didn’t make eye contact with Lestrade. This was not what he wanted. He would have gladly left London now that he’d failed to commit suicide, get as far away from anyone who knew him as he could. He had thought of dying alone in a Siberian tundra and it seemed like the most effective, decent, and attractive way to go. But he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes; a selfish, senseless, horrible machine. He was John Watson; he could never turn his back on anyone he could help, friend or stranger, and he knew he was the only man who could do this. Greg had made that all too painfully clear. Sherlock Holmes was dead. John Watson was the last willing man who had grasped the basics in the science of deduction.  
“Fine.” Was all John said in reply.  
“Thank you.” Greg sighed as he stood. “We have your accommodations prepared, that’s all you should need. The man you’re working with will get you set up with everything else.”  
“Who is he?” John asked coldly.  
“His name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”  
John laughed now, looking to Greg with uncanny confusion. “LAMDA? Fate of the country? Cumberbatch? Are you certain this isn’t all one big prank call, Greg?”  
“I assure you this is all a delicate and serious matter. I can’t share anymore, everything’s in the file, so be sure to study it.”  
John shook his head, flipping through the paper work. “This is all Mycroft’s doing. All some big wild goose chase with one of his government dogs to keep me distracted for the next year.”  
“I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless it was 100% true, John. I swear it will be worth your time. If you have a problem just call me, and we’ll sort through it, but I need a man out there, and you are the best I’ve got.”  
John looked up from the file as Greg stepped toward the door. “Thank you for the boost of confidence, Greg.” He said flatly.  
Greg grinned. “It will be good to have you back on the case, John. I’ll be seeing you.”  
With that, Lestrade was gone, leaving John to fester on the horrible decision he just made by accepting this joke of a case. With the ridiculous turn John’s life was taking, being buried 6 feet under seemed more and more attractive. The last thing John wanted was to have another man in his life to be a partner, and this entire file just reeked of Mycroft. It was to be nothing but a distraction to ensure John’s worthless existence. As long as John Watson was busy saving others, he would adapt to post-suicidal life, certainly.  
Though, John did realize something remarkable during Lestrade’s visit. It was the reason he had said yes to the case in the first place. For the first time in nearly 3 years, John’s hand stopped shaking. The tremor was absent, and John gained just a little shred of hope. Perhaps he could find himself again on this new mission. Domestic terrorism, bombs, Cumberbatch; at least it seemed he wouldn’t be bored.


	3. A Kiss with a Fist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch.tumblr.com

There was one reason John was grateful that Mycroft was still around, and that was because he could make even the impossible possible. After a single meeting with his therapist, John was discharged from the hospital. He stayed with Molly for the remainder of the week, recuperating and studying the file that grew more interesting every time he opened it. John found himself looking forward to this case, which was a much needed relief. The thought of suicide was ever present and tempting, but with Molly’s presence and the case’s preoccupation, John could refocus his efforts.  
The hotel reservations Lestrade had provided for John were set for an open date and time. He would leave John to decide when he was ready, he was grateful for that. At times John wanted to swiftly take the bookings and grab a taxi without question, but he’d avoided the harsh action. He wanted to be logical about this, he had to be or he would easily let himself go and fall apart with another suicidal fit. He didn’t want to deal with that, he didn’t want his soon to be undercover partner to put up with it either. Despite the urgency of this case, John forced himself to be patient and to give himself enough time.  
If they really could find the center of these terrorist attacks, it would save Great Britain the involvement of the ever nosey states interfering. They would save countless lives. John wanted to do that the most. Perhaps going through with this mission would encourage him to want to live again, give him the purpose he had lost at St Bart’s. There was only one way to find out.  
By the end of the week, John was packed and in a taxi to the LAMDA. It was only a 20 minute drive, John wondered if he would even need the hotel with Baker street less than 10 miles away. He supposed the hotel would be a good escape if things went awry. The drive to LAMDA was lovely, John rarely went to this part of London. It was much more urban, many of the flats and buildings were built with brick that varied in colors from deep red to dull grey.  
The streets were damp and icy but the many students that strut the sidewalks seemed very happy and carefree. John couldn’t imagine any of them being a part of anything dark other than what they must portray on stage for their peers. The LAMDA itself was a welcoming campus built with bright red bricks eschewed with modern architecture. John paid the cabby and stepped out with his packed bag on his shoulder.  
He shivered a bit as he looked at his notes and read them to himself out loud. “Professor Benedict Cumberbatch. Lecture hall 003, Textual Analysis and Interpretation. Alright.” The air was brisk and thin, John hurried to get inside the warm building.  
John made his way through the crowds of students who seemed to be departing from their late afternoon courses. He felt a bit overwhelmed by the crowd surrounding him, especially as his mind swirled to deduce every small detail he came into contact with. John stepped aside from the crowd and took a solitary hall to approach the lecture room. A few students hurried out last minute and as John peered inside he saw the Professor standing alone, gathering his books and paperwork from the podium.  
After taking an encouraging breath, John opened the door and stood at the top of the stairway. As much as he would have wanted to go straight to the man and introduce himself, a part of him forced him to choose his movements wisely. He slowly made his way down the carpeted steps, looking at the long lecture tables and chairs, then the dusty chalkboard that had fresh notes scribbled across it. Finally, he looked to the Professor who had just now noticed John’s presence.  
He was dressed in a dark blue fitted suit, buttoned up tight and clean. His hair was styled to lay back in a reserved way, and the spectacles distracted John from seeing his eyes very well. The man had shoved his large pale hands in his trousers once he saw John approach him and his mouth seemed to gape a bit. John came to the last steps but decided to keep his distance as long as he could.  
“Good afternoon.” John said, feeling a bit awkward as the Professor offered no such greeting to start. “Professor Cumberbatch?”  
The man blinked in surprise, as if waking from some sort of day dream. “Yes. None other.”  
John offered him a smile and held out his good hand, strategically avoiding the hand that still had the bandages around his wrist. “My name is Doctor John Watson.”  
He watched the Professor look to the hand, and that was it. In any other situation, John would feel taken a back, but he saw something more in the man before him. Was that fear? He awkwardly withdrew his hand before it began to tremor and shrugged at the heavy pack on his shoulder. Benedict’s eyes stayed glued on John, despite his clear avoidance, and it was a very frustrating situation. He could see the turn of Cumberbatch’s hips as he attempted to loosen up. His hands finally left his trousers and moved his paperwork from the platform to his work desk.  
“Lestrade said you had a unique gift.” His voice was unbelievably deep, it felt like silk to John’s ear, and he couldn’t quite grasp why it seemed so familiar.  
John took in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and looked to Cumberbatch who leaned forward, his back nearly completely to John. “Yes… the science of deduction. My former colleague invented it.”  
“Yes, I’ve heard of him. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and Doctor John Watson, PA and blogger.” John could detect a chuckle on the edge of his voice.  
This made John’s fists clench a bit and he muttered under his breath, “I wasn’t a PA…”  
“How exactly does this ‘science of deduction’ work? What use is it for a high profile case like this?”  
John was honestly surprised at how cocky this man appeared to be. Well with the ludicrous name, and the not so low profile job, John supposed it shouldn’t be such a surprise, the man had to be arrogant or naïve for an undercover agent. Still, John took the bait and accepted this challenge.  
“Well, seeing as you’ve spent a good 3 months on this case, I suppose you’re desperate for my line of work. Especially the shape that you’re in. This past week looks like it’s been rough on you, a man who polishes the tip of his shoes to the, dare I say, crown of his head. You enjoy looking as clean cut as you can, but by the state of your paperwork and handwriting, I can tell that’s definitely nothing but a laughable front for your so called disguise. You really are a messy individual by habit, in fact everything but your classroom is a complete wreck. You’ve spent hours each day in tears, I’m assuming a close friend of yours has died, but you put up the front that everything is fine, and you won’t go to his funeral. Perhaps you can’t take the social interaction, more likely you’re too busy wasting your time here not making progress with the investigation. You are most definitely an arrogant sod though, with a name Benedict Cumberbatch, and the title of Professor at LAMDA, how could you not be? I truly hope I can knock some sense into you while we work together, because any man that would make a joke out of such serious work is not a friend of mine. There are lives at stake, and I’m here to ensure we get to the bottom of this.” John was pleased when he felt the tremor in his hand was completely absent. This is what he needed, as much as he hated this Professor Cumberbatch, this work would be worth it.  
Cumberbatch looked to John, his face empty of expression. He stood up straight, and John just realized how tall Benedict was now that John stood at the bottom of the staircase. He gripped the strap of his pack, and with the trained dominance of a soldier, didn’t back down as Ben loomed over him. There was something about this man that shook John up inside, more than anger, there was a connection between them, and he couldn’t figure out why. He was familiar, John knew him but why couldn’t he remember?  
“You’re absolutely right.” Said Cumberbatch, and John could finally see his crystal blue eyes.  
John quickly cleared his throat and prepared himself for another jab. “Was I? Good. That’s good.”  
Cumberbatch’s attitude had completely changed and he looked at John with a sort of fondness. John became concerned, perhaps the arrogance was all just a test, and although he was spot on with those deduction’s he began to worry he had taken it too far. “Listen, I’m sorry I brought up your friend. It was wrong of me to-“  
“Not at all, but you did miss something vital. He actually isn’t dead.”  
“Oh? Well that’s good.” John attempted to make up what friendly ground they had lost.  
“Yes, but… he did try to commit suicide just 6 days ago, and it was all because of my mistakes.” Cumberbatch looked at John deeply as he spoke.  
John stood in shock, what a coincidence, an awful coincidence. He stared at Ben, trying to take in his face, his pale skin, his long body, his dark brown hair, those crystal blue eyes, and those cheekbones. Everything went deathly quiet.  
“John.” Was all Sherlock had to say and John’s world began to flip upside down. There was no mistaking that voice calling his name, it was him. Sherlock Holmes. John couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t believe it.  
As he took a step toward him John grabbed his shirt collar roughly, pulling him close then shoving him back. Sherlock’s back hit the table and he winced as gravity pulled his body to the ground. John quickly grabbed his face, ripped off his glasses and ran his finger’s swiftly through the younger man’s hair, revealing the familiar unkept curls. John gasped as he stood back, his eyes widened with shock. There was no mistaking it any longer, as Sherlock looked up, disoriented and concerned, John’s entire world began to crumble at his feet.  
“Sh… Sherlock…” John gasped.  
With a nod Sherlock held to his only friends arm. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”  
There was nothing that could contain the fist that slugged Sherlock right in the jaw. He hadn’t expected it, and he certainly didn’t expect two more punches to be delivered after the first. John panted and stumbled back before he could do any more damage. His legs had turned to jelly, and his knuckles had gone red and stung hot. Sherlock held his face in his inner arm, groaning in pain as the swelling began to set in. John shook his head as the tears numbly fell from his eyes, his entire body trembling.  
“How… How could you?!” He screamed. “Do you realize what you’ve done?! You selfish- oh God damn it, Sherlock!”  
Sherlock looked to him, eyes dampened with fresh tears, a cut on his nose and lip, and he looked so pathetic. He looked nothing like the Sherlock of John’s dreams or nightmares, or even the Sherlock he had fallen for before all this hell. It was too much for John to handle, and just before his sight began to go blind with tears he had run out of the lecture hall, and escaped the University as fast as his feet could carry him.  
The strong winter winds beat at John. He couldn’t find his bearings; he didn’t know this area and his nerves were completely shot. When he stumbled upon a public loo he rushed inside and closed the stall shut. John struggled to stifle his sobs, and he didn’t look any less pathetic than Sherlock had when he abandoned him beaten and alone in that classroom. John felt so sick, not just in his stomach, but in his mind. It was all some cruel joke, what had he done to deserve this?  
He kneeled forward and spat into the loo, his body shaking and a cold sweat joining his tears. He knew he was experiencing withdrawals, he desperately needed a drink. He needed an escape. His body gave in and emptied the little food he had into the loo. Reality had never felt more like Hell in John’s life. Afghanistan had been a physical trauma, but this was completely psychological and inescapable. Had this all been some sick hallucination? John was familiar with those, but the bright red marks on his knuckles ached, and he knew they were all too real.  
John’s body shook gently as he wiped his face of the tears and sweat. After flushing down the remains he stepped over to the sink and dowsed his face with the luke warm water. He took deep breaths, his heart slowly settling on a more manageable pace. He exited the loo and grabbed the first taxi he could and headed for that hotel. He wanted to run back to Baker street, he really did, but he would be brave. He needed to face Sherlock again, and hopefully the next time wouldn’t involve fists flying.  
He reasoned with himself in the cab, his reaction had been horrid. Sherlock had seemed so happy to have him back in his life again, but God knows what he’s been up to the past 3 years. The new alias wasn’t helping, it was all one big game, and it made John feel all the more worthless in Sherlock’s universe. John was happy, deep down he was, Sherlock was alive, but it all just felt like one big joke at John’s complete expense.  
He thought of Sherlock, and the words they had shared. Sherlock knew about his suicide attempt, that’s what made the machine finally get the clue. John didn’t understand why he waited so long to bring him back into his life, if he hadn’t completely broken down would Sherlock have realized how desperately he needed him? Then John thought about Sherlock’s attempt at an apology. What did he honestly expect from John? A sorry was certainly not going to cut it and John wasn’t going to spare him this time.  
When John arrived at the hotel he quickly checked in and found his room. When he entered, it all felt strange, major appliances and small details were absent. John had lived in a hotel for a time, he noticed when a mirror was missing, or a collection for pens, and even a large flat panel television they commonly accessorized with. John peered into the loo and noticed the mirror was missing from there as well. He stepped further down the small corridor and looked to his main room. Mycroft Holmes stood there with a fellow government dog, and John noted that he no longer had cuffs around his wrists.


	4. You're Not Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch.tumblr.com

“It’s good to see you, John.” Said Mycroft as John set down his pack. The man beside him was early twenties, dressed in a fitted grey suit, but it was just a front. He wasn’t an office worker, not at all, he was military, but in Mycroft’s line of work, John figured Special Forces.  
“Please don’t come off so arrogant, Mycroft.” John’s fists clenched more. With the dog here John wouldn’t be able to even attempt at harming the older Holmes. “Who’s this? I never see you with anyone but your secretary.”  
Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the carpet, glancing to his colleague. “This is Corporal Zachary Donovan.”  
Zachary raised his hand in salute toward John. “Captain.”  
Out of habit John saluted in return. “Donovan?”  
“Yes. My sister Sally works at New Scotland Yard.” Zachary replied, settling a bit.  
“I felt you both should be properly introduced, as I’m assuming you’ll be taking the case.” Mycroft interrupted but his voice remained calm.  
John shot a glare at Mycroft. “You’ve always had a maniacal sense of reality, Mycroft, but this…”  
“Have I not done you a favor, John? My brother is alive, you should be getting reacquainted over a cup of tea, but I knew this situation wouldn’t be so simple.”  
“Of course it won’t! /You/ have kept me completely in the dark for nearly 3 years! I dedicated myself to proving his innocence while you stood back watching without care. I died slowly, drinking myself to death, I was a wreck-I still am! Here I thought the only man in my life that really mattered was dead, and he was a 14 minute taxi ride away from me! No, Mycroft, you have not done /any/ favors for me. Not before, during, or after all this shit. So kindly fuck off and let me choose how I want to pull the rug from under my feet next time, because my psyche honestly can’t take any more of this!” John panted, his body shaking with rage as Mycroft stood stoic and observant. “Just tell me, how could you do it? How could you hide him from me? Why would you… I thought he was dead, Mycroft.”  
“It was all in order to protect you, John. Despite your assumptions that this was my entire evil scheme, I must correct you. Every step that was taken after the fall was orchestrated by my brother. Before you go and blame him, you must understand that if he hadn’t done all this, you would have been buried 6 feet under. My brother deduced that there was only one way to save you, and that was by sacrificing his name, and identity, and working outside of London to destroy Moriarty’s web.” Mycroft looked up. “And may I add? It’s because of me that you’re here now. That you know the truth. He would have set it off for 5 more months if I-“  
“If you hadn’t told him I tried to kill myself?” John asked coldly and the room went still. John could see Zach shift slightly as he grew uncomfortable in the silence. “Well, then I’m glad I did. Had I known it would take a cut of the wrist I would have done it 2 years ago.”  
“It’s not that simple, John.”  
John laughed. “Of course not, everything has to be brilliant when it comes to you both. I’m average though, so I couldn’t possibly understand.”  
Mycroft sighed through his nose. “I will leave whatever apologies you’re seeking to my brother. Everything we’ve set forth to do has been accomplished, we’re reaching the end of this war. Will you be a part of it, John?”  
With one last shake of his head John sighed heavily. “Yes… of course I bloody will. I wish I could say that only death could keep me from his side.”  
Mycroft removed a flask from his coat and stepped over, Zachary in toe, handing it to John. “Rest as much as you need to, but please go to him. Whether you believe it or not, he’s just as lost without you at his side as you are without him.” John took the flask and untwisted the cap, swigging generously. “These 3 years have been hell for all of us, John. Now we can finish this.”  
John sat on the edge of his bed with the flask in his hand, watching Zach and Mycroft wander towards the door. “Thanks for the drink.” The door was opened and then shut with a click, and John was left in the suicide proofed hotel room with the flask of strong whiskey in his hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

He spent a lot of time thinking all of this over. Everything Mycroft had said, and what he could deduce from his meeting with Sherlock. John glanced at his phone a few times, and thought about calling Greg, but he could tell he had been left out of the loop as well. That’s why Greg had remained so loyal and familiar; he had nothing to hide from John. He was caught in the lie just as much as he’d been, and John didn’t want to make any harsh movements unless Sherlock gave him permission. If Moriarty’s men were really a part of the terrorism in London, Sherlock needed to stay undercover as long as possible.  
John finished the flask slowly, making every drop count. He licked the remaining liquid from his lips and screwed the lid back on, tucking it away in his coat for later use. It would be enough to keep him together for the remainder of the day, but he would need to be sure to not overexert himself, he didn’t think his heart could take much more of this.  
He stood and stripped, grabbing his bag and removing some fresh clothing. He started to feel a bit better as he shrugged on a clean shirt, buttoned his jeans and laced his shoes. His breath smelt horrible so he refreshed with a brushing. He’d been an absolute moron to Sherlock; he wanted to be at least half decent when going to him now. He ran a small comb through his hair and applied a fresh bandage around his right wrist. He grabbed a jumper and his coat, and left the hotel just when dusk began to hit the sky.  
The cold was nearly unbearable but the cabby had the heat on full blast to John’s relief. Lestrade had left him Cumberba- or Sherlock’s home address and he earnestly waited for the cab to pull up on the block. He was located in West Kensington, not far from the school campus. The area was much like Baker Street, busy, with a Tesco just across from the flat. John paid the cabby and stepped out, looking at the doorway and building. The door was black with two vertical windows, and the brick of the building was grey. There were columns and frames, around the door and windows, that were white, and it was three stories. Rather big place for one man, but John figured he could afford it on his teaching pension, and whatever funds Mycroft was clearly dishing out.  
John felt a violent chill blow past him and he hurried up the steps and knocked on the door. He huffed and hugged to his torso, inertly kicking himself for having forgotten gloves and a scarf. A light was turned on in the hallway and it flooded through the once dark windows, beaming on John’s face. The glass was warped, all John could see was the outline and shadow of Sherlock’s body, and he had to resist rubbing his eyes to be sure this was all real.  
The door opened and it was Sherlock. The faux spectacles were removed and his hair, although much shorter, had been freed to fall over his forehead and ears, and God did he look beautiful. Sherlock stared for a moment before smiling patiently, and John could see the cuts on his face, and hell it made him feel like a real dick. John got a bit of courage to smile, and as he let out a breath it caught the dry air and misted.  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He said, his eyes becoming bluer than usual. “I overreacted… I’m sorry.”  
Sherlock stared thoughtfully at his dearest friend and finally laid a hand on his shoulder.  
“Get in here before you die of cold, John.”  
Although a bit self-conscious, John accepted the offer and took his first steps into what had been Sherlock’s home the past few months. It was warm, and it smelt of him. The sweat, the ink and paper, even the acid from his current experiments, and John could have started crying right there, because these scents had faded from 221B long ago. Those small things were what John tried to hold on to the most. Then he felt a pair of large hands on his shoulders and looked to see Sherlock helping him out of his coat.  
“Oh,” John muttered turning and pulling the sleeves off in a slight panic. “sorry, I’ll just-“  
“Nothing’s wrong, John. It’s all right.” Sherlock took the coat once it was off and hung it on a hook beside the doorway, right beside his own, his hands stroked down it gently before turning back to John.  
“Yes…” John took a breath after the reassurance. “right.”  
He looked over Sherlock who had remained in the blue trousers and dark leather shoes. His suit coat was off though, leaving his white buttoned shirt. The cuffs were rolled up, and he noticed a trace of blood on the inner right arm. This caused John to look up to Sherlock’s face. The cuts were small but had been left untreated. It was just like Sherlock to do that, John wanted to smile, because he started to feel needed again. He raised his hand to touch the cut right on the roof of Sherlock’s nose and saw the man flinch slightly.  
“We need to get these bandaged, Sherlock.” John said, attempting to make his tone more serious.  
“They’re fine John, I don’t feel a thing.” He consoled, shoeing John’s hand from his face, to touch the cuts himself.  
But John’s hand grasped his before he could infect the wounds with whatever odd chemicals he was working with. “I’m your Doctor. At least let me clean them.” He caught eyes with Sherlock and could feel his heart flutter. “It will only take a moment.”  
Sherlock frowned in his childish way and slightly rolled his eyes. “Very well… the kitchen’s just here.” He stepped through the doorway just beside them into a white and black tiled kitchen. John followed, watching him remove a towel from a cabinet handle and offer it to him as he leaned beside the sink.  
John took it, finally beginning to smile and turned on the faucet, dampening the towel then turned to Sherlock who watched with what seemed a bit too much concentration. John lifted the towel to Sherlock’s face, stroking over a slightly bruised part of his cheek. Sherlock stared at John with his crystal blue eyes, but now they weren’t so observant, they seemed relaxed. John stroked the cheek a few times before slowly moving to the top of his nose. Sherlock couldn’t contain a wince and bent forward away from the contact.  
John huffed impatiently. “See? These would have definitely gotten infected.”  
“It’s not a big deal.” Sherlock sighed as he straightened up again, fingers holding his nose.  
With a shake of his head, John withdrew Sherlock’s hand again and cupped the cheek that had been spared the small beating. Sherlock looked directly at him again and John continued cleaning the cut. He could feel Sherlock’s exhaled breath against his palm and it caused John to forget to breathe at times. Every now again he would hear a soft wince from Sherlock and see him close his eyes tight. John took those moments to stroke a cheekbone and smile to himself.  
Then he moved the stained towel down to the cut on Sherlock’s lower lip, and John’s heart began to ache as it beat hard and fast. His lips were still perfect and beautiful, and to be able to touch them like this was overwhelming. John’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest as he caught eyes with Sherlock again, seeing his brow slightly furrowed and his eyes piercing through him. Sherlock raised his right hand and grasped John’s left wrist, pulling the towel from his face and closing the space between them, his lips pressing to John’s eagerly.  
John dropped the towel and heard an odd noise release from his throat before he returned the kiss in earnest. Both his hands rose to hold Sherlock’s face, the tips of his fingers delighting in the touch of his soft curled hair, and when John felt Sherlock’s hands grasp low on his hips, there was no holding back. John could taste the iron from the cut on his lip, but it didn’t bother him, he wanted Sherlock, all of him.  
He felt Sherlock’s hands command his hips, pressing them back against the counter, and their body’s fit tight and perfect against each other. John could tell that Sherlock had never kissed before but he knew he was a quick learner, so went right into teaching him with his own lips. Their lips and bodies were fighting desperately to take in more of each other, and soon John had been lifted to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter, Sherlock’s hips fitting in tight, thrusting hot against his.  
They groaned out loud, and parted lips, clinging tight to each other. Sherlock thrust against John’s aching package, and licked and bit violently at his throat. John gripped tight to Sherlock’s hair, unable to stifle his whimpering moans in reaction to Sherlock’s punishing teeth, and his free hand opened Sherlock’s shirt nearly all the way. When Sherlock released John’s throat he arched back slightly, panting hot as his thrusts quickened.  
The sight was stunning and John could feel the heat growing, but he didn’t want to just cum, he wanted Sherlock. He gasped for oxygen and began to protest, holding Sherlock’s shoulders firmly.  
“N-no, no… Sherlock, God damn it, stop!”  
His lover shook with ecstasy, nearly to the edge of climax but he obeyed and withdrew his hips, remaining close. “Wh-what? John?”  
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I’ve waited too long for this, and I can’t waste it on some juvenile dry hump!” John panted, his body screaming for more, but he had to get this right. He stroked Sherlock’s hair, and licked the cut on his nose affectionately. “I want you, Sherlock. I need you inside me. I don’t care how or where but I need you.”  
Sherlock gasped a bit as he gulped down oxygen, trying to get ahold of his nerves, and John knew this was difficult for him. His tolerance level was zero compared to John when it came to sex but he would do this differently if John demanded it.  
“S-so… how? I mean… people, th-they usually… do it in a bed?”  
John kissed him tenderly; he was amazed Sherlock was actually trying to reason with this.  
“Yes, /people/ do… usually, but this is you and me, Sherlock. Sentiment or not I honestly don’t care where as long as you’re comfortable.”  
Sherlock pressed his face against John’s, his breath finally starting to calm, his hands still gripping John’s thighs tight in longing.  
“Let’s go to my room then. I’ll have the proper… equipment.”  
After John gave him a supportive nod they drew close to each other once more and kissed passionately. He felt Sherlock run his fingers through his graying golden hair and he stroked his face in return. He hadn’t been careful though and felt Sherlock pull away when he noticed the bandage on John’s wrist. He grasped the hand and looked at the wrappings.  
Out of impulse John violently wrenched his arm back, tucking it around his stomach and out of sight. He was ashamed; that he’d given up, that he even pondered on the idea of suicide, that Sherlock was clearly deducing every detail of why and how and when. He turned his head back towards his lover, no longer hiding the pain and anger he felt inside. Sherlock took it in before kissing him again, stroking his face tenderly and whispering “my John” over and over between kisses.  
Sherlock stepped back after a moment and pondered on his next move. His lips had never looked more delicious, plump and red from their thrilled kisses, and his eyes were so dark from his dilated pupils. John’s eyes ventured down to Sherlock’s waist and he bit his lip to restrain a wild moan at the sight of the restrained cock in those trousers. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock stepping out of the kitchen and up the stairs to what he assumed was Sherlock’s room.  
He took a second to get his bearings, and scooted off of the counter to stand on the floor again. He quickly pulled off his jumper, taking in a relieving sigh. It had been suffocating during the tussle and his white shirt now stuck to his body with sweat. John returned to the hallway, taking his time up the walnut wood stairs to the glowing doorway at the top. When he made it to the opening, he saw Sherlock searching his unkempt drawers for something. The room was a hopeless mess, but the bed was vacant, and that’s all that John cared for at the moment.  
John noticed Sherlock as he found what he was looking for, lube of course, and John felt a content smile cross his face as he stepped inside, sliding off his shoes and unbuttoning his jeans. Sherlock looked to him from across the room, lube in hand, and eyes fascinated by his movements. He tossed the bottle uncaring onto the bed and focused in on surrounding his prey, kissing John and pressing him against the wall.  
“What about transport?” John asked, stepping out of his trousers.  
“What about not being gay?” Chimed Sherlock.  
John shrugged with a practiced grin. “After you died, I stopped enjoying sex with women. I hardly enjoyed it when you were “alive” actually. I was so concerned with /people/ and all that… and I didn’t think mum and dad could handle one gay child, let alone two.”  
“Aw, denial, convenient.” Sherlock nodded as he finished unbuttoning his wrinkled shirt, tossing it on the floor.  
John stifled a soft groan, reaching out and feeling Sherlock’s torso. “And that transport?”  
Sherlock grasped John’s hands from his chest and kissed the fingers, looking down at him fondly. “Let’s just say these 3 years have established exactly what you mean to me. Accepting you as a /friend/ was odd enough. There are so many sentimental titles. It took some time to really understand what it meant to /fall/ for your only friend.”  
John sighed, his hands turning to relaxed fists in Sherlock’s hands. “Never use the term fall in my presence again.”  
“Oh, right, sorry. It’s a common term, I think, nothing more.” Sherlock bickered as he waved an uncaring hand.  
“Then we’re in agreement. Want to fuck my brains out now?” John kissed his cheek, nudging his face against Sherlock’s while feeling more of his torso.  
“That would be brain, John; you couldn’t possibly have more than just the one, obviously.” Sherlock grinned, stifling a chuckle.  
“Oh, yes, of course.” They joined lips again, Sherlock pulling him close and drawing his shirt up to his chest. John helped remove it and began to push down his boxers. He sat back on the bed, exposing his aching cock, and kicked his boxers to the side. He observed a rather stunned Sherlock and couldn’t help but smile. “Do you want me, Sherlock?”  
“Yes. Oh God, yes.” There was no hesitation in his words, but he did not allow his tone to seem excitable, only earnest.  
John grabbed Sherlock’s hips, drawing him close, and took the liberty of unfastening his trousers. Sherlock bit his lip, watching every move. John pushed the material aside, pressing his nose and lips against the soaked tent in Sherlock’s briefs. Sherlock couldn’t help but grasp John’s hair, he could have cried at how amazing John looked at this moment, and how much he wanted to be in him. John pulled back only slightly, and grasped the material to expose Sherlock’s long swollen cock.  
“Oh, fuck, John!” Sherlock nearly sobbed as the air hit his prick.  
There was no hesitation as John licked Sherlock’s dripping head, the taste was familiar, John had experimented on himself before, but it was undeniably Sherlock. John couldn’t believe the sounds coming from his lover above him and he continued to pleasure him with excitement. He licked all over and generously cupped his balls, kissing and worshiping every inch of the hot member. Sherlock tried to control himself but his body would jolt and cause him to thrust against John’s lips and face, and though it didn’t prove effective for the pleasure, it certainly looked incredible.  
John grabbed the lube and repositioned himself to sit up on his knees as he emptied some of the bottle on his slightly shaking hand. He looked up at Sherlock and was graced a wanton kiss before he shared the lube between hands, one hand reaching for Sherlock, and the other searching behind him to begin the preparation. He stroked his entrance a few times before skillfully inserting his first finger, and groaned in need. He stroked Sherlock’s cock with the lube on his other hand and watched Sherlock moan with pleasure. John’s cock ached madly as he attempted to find his prostate and pleasure Sherlock at the same time, and he impatiently inserted a second finger.  
“Sherlock, you have to prep me. There’s only so much I can do at this angle.” John informed as he finished getting Sherlock’s cock properly covered.  
“Y-yes, alright.” Sherlock nodded and he grasped the lube himself, shoving his trousers and briefs completely off and pushing John back, admiring the sight of him as he did so.  
John panted and his brows knitted. He laid back submissively; opening his relaxed legs and began to stroke himself out of desperation.  
“Nnn! Yes..!” John cried as some of the ache began to subside.  
Sherlock grabbed one of John’s legs and pressed two lubed fingers into him. John gasped and groaned as he realized how long Sherlock’s fingers were and that they pressed directly on his sweet spot.  
“Th-there! Sherlock, again! Oh, fuck!” John instructed, the hand on his cock completely idol and his body arching back in pleasure.  
The fingers repeatedly plunged in at the same angle and John’s hips instinctively lifted to the contact. Sherlock inserted a third finger and generously provided a few more short strokes in order to get John really heated up.  
John begged as he felt Sherlock’s hand withdraw. “Sherlock, now, please, I need you now!”  
He nearly sighed in relief as he felt Sherlock press his soaked head to his entrance, and with a breath Sherlock began to bury himself in. John gripped the sheets and Sherlock nearly shouted, the heat and tightness far more powerful than any sensation he had experienced before.  
“Oh, John,” He panted, his body arched back, hovering over him. “I-is it alright… are you alright?”  
John panted and gulped some air, his body stiff yet welcoming. “Yes, go on. Give me what you’ve got.”  
Sherlock began to thrust as steadily as he could. He knew he’d have to open John up slowly, and short, focused thrusts would be the way to do it. He bit at his lip as he controlled his sex denied body from wasting itself in John, this had to be good, for the both of them. Then he felt hands reach up and stroke his throat and face and he looked down at his John, who was here, who had continued to love him despite all of this hell he’d put him through. Sherlock wasn’t used to reflecting on this sentiment, but it did begin to overwhelm him and when he felt his cock completely submerge into John they both groaned out.  
Sherlock laid forward, John’s arms looping around his shoulders, and he held him close as they desperately kissed. Sherlock’s hips moved in equal desperation, and he made sure John’s body shook with every entrance. His lips and touch were hot against Sherlock’s skin and he thrust faster as John’s legs locked around his hips. He wouldn’t last long, so he stroked John in time and was rewarded with the sound of his pleased cries. Sherlock bit at the corner between John’s throat and shoulder as the heat rose between them and his thrusts became uncontrollably erratic.  
Sherlock came, hot and heavy, deep inside John, and he groaned deeply against the skin he bit. John cried, gripping to his hair, and released just after as Sherlock’s hips jolted inside him and his hand loyally stroked him to the edge. He was light headed, and couldn’t even feel the teeth buried in his skin. The world had gone temporarily white, and the weight of Sherlock on top of him was a comfort, a type of sanctuary.  
Their post-orgasm bodies shook lightly as their nerves danced beneath their flesh and John’s vision came to. The first thing he saw was Sherlock’s exhausted face laid against his chest, his dark curls sticking to the sweat on his forehead and on John’s chest. John raised a weak hand and ran the fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He looked to John’s eyes at this contact and John began to realize how much he had aged since they had last seen each other. This room had proper lighting, and just now John had taken a moment to really look at him. Sherlock was a man now, in more than one sense of the word.  
They lay in each other’s arms for a few minutes, catching their breath, allowing the nerves to settle, and just taking in the moment. Soon they were sat up, kissing and touching every inch of each other. John didn’t want to leave anything to chance, not any more. Every minute with Sherlock counted, and if he ever lost him again, he would need all of this to hold on to. Sherlock assisted in getting John to the loo on the other side of the room, and they lazily cleaned their bodies of the mess they made with tissue.  
“Was it alright?” Sherlock asked, getting a strange look from John. “I-I mean me… it’s ok to say no, I mean, I hadn’t done it before and…”  
John pulled him over by his arm and kissed him hot, tasting his tongue and drawing him in close by the hair. Sherlock groaned with pleasure and stared at John as he pulled away. “You are by far the best fuck I’ve ever had. I am being genuine. You were excellent, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock blinked in surprise, a blush still across his cheeks after being awarded with that kiss. “John.”  
“You are perfect.” John said, nudging his face against Sherlock’s.  
Sherlock thought on this for a moment, and pressed his face to John’s in return and whispered, “You are too.”  
Climbing into bed naked with Sherlock Holmes was an odd yet amazing experience. John laid back on his side of the bed heavily, he was completely exhausted and he felt he could say the same for Sherlock. This night, everything, from their first embrace to this simple moment, it couldn’t be any better for John Watson. A broken man who somehow always found new life in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock sighed against his pillow, laying on his side and looking to John.  
“John?” He asked thoughtfully.  
“Yes?” John asked, looking towards him as he lay flat on his back.  
He looked down, suddenly seeming very self-conscious and concerned. “Was I… too late?”  
John turned, facing Sherlock properly. “What do you mean?”  
“I made you wait a long time, John. More than I wanted. I just… I want to know if I was too late to ask for… forgiveness, or maybe even…”  
He didn’t finish the thought and John reached out stroking his face gently. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’ll tell you now that I did hate this, all of it. I suffered alone. But no, you’re not too late. I still want you, Sherlock. That will never change,” Sherlock looked to John tenderly. “and I love you.”  
“John.” This caused Sherlock to rise up beneath the covers, he was literally shocked.  
John chuckled. “I do, I really do love you. Whatever love means, because we are a bit different from the usual couple, you and I. But I have no doubt that this is love, it always has been.”  
Sherlock stared and after a moment settled back down on his pillow, reaching out and grasping John’s hand. “Yes… I feel the same. If there is a word to sum up everything I feel about you, then I’ll use it. Though, at time’s I think it’s not enough.” He heard John chuckle again and said, “I love you, John.”  
John stared, he was touched, Sherlock could never get more genuine than this, and he was the only person in this world who could ever appreciate him for that. He held Sherlock’s hand in return.  
“Then don’t you ever leave me again you sodding git.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time thinking about how their first love scene was going to go down. At first it was going to be John simply seeing Sherlock in the doorway and tackling him right there, begging for him, and to hell with the sentiment. Fortunately I took time and really thought of their characters, what had taken place in their relationship even while they were apart, and the fact that many emotions and confessions had already breached through while they were separate. Suddenly, this chapter began to write itself, and I am so pleased with it. I was up till 3am writing and I feel this is the best smut I've written. I hope I've done their characters justice and that you look forward to the rest of my story because I am certainly not through with it. I am excited to publish more!


	5. The New Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sexy times and return of plot~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch. tumblr.com

They had fallen asleep like that; face to face, hands together, and it was the safest either of them had felt in a very long time. The winter winds howled down West Kensington but it remained warm and comfortable in Sherlock’s flat, in Sherlock’s room, in Sherlock’s bed. In their bed. John fell asleep almost immediately after their simple confessions and Sherlock did his best to remain awake and stare at his John. He still couldn’t believe it was him, and how unbelievably perfect this night had been. John was here and he was his, and nothing would ever change or take that away from them, never again. After scooting closer to John, Sherlock did sleep, his body needed it, his first try at intercourse had been very tiresome.  
The morning arrived gentle and quiet, the wind’s having been defeated during the night, and the clouds grew less angry, allowing a bit of light to break through them. John awoke steadily, his body having turned during the night, and despite the stiffness in his lower half, John felt incredible. He blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light flooding the room and as he glanced toward the large open window he could see a good amount of snow falling from the sky. It was the first snow of the season and John couldn’t resist a smile when he heard the soft giggling of children delighting in it on the street outside.  
John groaned and shifted to lie on his back, rubbing a hand over his face as he yawned. The bed was soft and warm and the mattress was heaven sent. If they ever got back to 221B, this mattress was definitely going with them. John slid the hand off of his face and looked to the other half of the bed that was now vacant. This is what John had feared, he gripped the sheets, trying to remain steady and logical, and pulled them away, revealing a dent in the mattress that proved that it all hadn’t been a dream. Sherlock had been there, he was still here, and he hadn’t left John.  
Despite the solid evidence, John could feel tears threatening his eyes and his heart pounded quickly in his chest. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair as he sat up in the bed. He had been broken, and he honestly didn’t think he would get used to this. The idea of Sherlock vanishing again was too real, the wound was very fresh and deep, and his mind wanted him to continue to believe the lie, in order to protect his heart. John wiped the fresh tears before they fell, and out of panic he began to call out.  
“Sh-Sherlock? Sherlock?!” He tried to sound calm, but it was easier said than done as his mind tempted him to fear the worse. This had all been another cruel dream, maybe it was still a dream, Sherlock was dead, wake up you idiot!  
He was comforted by some startled sounds from downstairs and he pulled the sheets over to his chest, hugging his knees slightly. He sniffed the tears away and breathed as he heard bare feet make their way up the wooden stairs, and it was Sherlock, it was him, he would walk through that doorway and everything would be ok. John couldn’t stop his body from rocking steadily but then Sherlock stepped through the room and John’s eyes lit up with uncontained joy.  
“I’m here, John.” Sherlock said quickly as he stepped in, dressed in only his pajama bottoms, two mugs of steaming hot tea in his hands. “Are you alright?”  
John stared at him for a moment before breathing out a relieved chuckle.  
“Yes… yes, sorry. Good morning.” John stammered as his heart finally began to relax and he shifted his body to sit back against the headboard of the bed.  
The mild concern left Sherlock’s eyes as he sat on the edge of his side of the bed, handing a cup to John.  
“Thought you could use this.” He said with a half grin, the wrinkles on the side of his face scrunching in a familiar and irresistible way.  
John took the hot mug into his hands delicately, pulling it close to his face and sipped gingerly.  
“Yes, thank you. It’s just right.” He breathed contently, taking in a few more sips.  
Sherlock drank some of his own, staring at the wall beside the doorway, and John could tell he was busy with work in a deep corner of his mind. It was lovely to see him like this again, so John decided to leave it at that for now, remaining quiet and enjoying his cuppa, watching the steady snow fall from the window. He could have stayed like this forever. Just having Sherlock in his presence was enough to make John feel put together again. Although he had been dramatically scarred from all this, he was grateful that Sherlock hadn’t. It was good to see Sherlock behaving like Sherlock, not an emotional wreck like John had turned out.  
The tea was another familiar thing that John had pushed aside a couple years ago. All the small things, from the tea they had drank, to a certain color of jumper John used to wear, he had tried to throw all of it out because it did nothing but constantly remind him. Now this tea was a comfort, and John didn’t have to be reminded any longer, because it had all been a lie. He wanted to know how Sherlock did it, why he did it, what he’d been doing since he’d left, but John was comforted with the notion that there would be time to ask. He needed to delight in Sherlock’s presence for now, even if it was in silence.  
John glanced at his watch and saw that it was a little bit after 11am, he became a bit worried.  
“Sherlock? Don’t you have classes to instruct today?” He asked calmly but with concern.  
Sherlock blinked back to reality and looked to John with confusion.  
“John, it’s a Saturday. I don’t have classes on the weekend.” Sherlock frowned, a bit upset at being removed from his heavy train of thought by such a trivial question.  
“Oh, right, sorry.” John sighed in relief, setting his nearly finished cuppa aside. “I just wanted to be sure.”  
He watched Sherlock guzzle down his tea, and was surprised when he noticed how brown his skin had become. He also noticed a scar or two along his right side. They seemed to be no more than a year old and John felt like a real git. Although Sherlock hadn’t experienced the mental toll like John, it seemed he had gone through physical trials, he had sacrificed so much, and he had missed John as much as he had missed him. John had no right to judge Sherlock so poorly, Mycroft had been right; these 3 years were hell for the lot of them. John couldn’t resist reaching out and feeling the thick scars along the side of Sherlock’s torso.  
Sherlock jumped a bit at the sensation, the area vulnerable and even more sensitive because of the scars. John deduced that the wounds had been contracted from blades, but John couldn’t analyze deeper than that. Sherlock calmed at the contact and watched John come closer to his side as he inspected them.  
“I’d been kidnapped by Moriarty’s men in Indonesia.” He softly explained. “Of course it had all been planned out, I was taken prisoner on purpose, but they’re a superstitious lot and deduced my plans a bit too early.”  
John listened and sat up, looking to his lover. “You’ve been to Indonesia?”  
With a huffed chuckle Sherlock nodded. “I’ve rooted out criminal rings from France, Italy, Spain, South America, South Africa, and I’ve spent a lot of time in Arabia.”  
John was amazed at all this but couldn’t help but stare at his hands on Sherlock’s scars with a frown.  
“All those adventures… and I wasn’t with you.”  
He could tell Sherlock had turned his head back to look at him, but he didn’t meet his eyes, he was disappointed.  
“You don’t understand, John. I couldn’t take you with me.” Sherlock said, his voice deep.  
“Why not? Because it was too dangerous? Because I’m an idiot?” John demanded, eyes meeting Sherlock’s now, a bit of fire behind them.  
Sherlock looked a bit stunned but quickly spoke again. “Because you had a job to do in London.”  
John stared in confusion, he hadn’t expected that. “What-“  
He felt Sherlock’s hand’s reach up and cup his face, and he kissed John tenderly. “You believed in me, John. You were what I needed to remain strong. You’re what pushed me to finish this, to come home to you.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“I know, John. I wanted you with me. If there had been a way I would have done all this with you. Now the opportunity has presented itself. I want you with me on this last struggle. I’ve made it to the very center, John, we can undo Moriarty’s rule together.” Sherlock smiled again and John could feel his anger subside.  
He clasped to Sherlock’s hands, holding them to his face as he thought on Sherlock’s words.  
“Yes, please, Sherlock. Let me do this with you. I don’t want either of us to be alone anymore. I know I can help, I will.” He wasn’t afraid to plead. He wanted to be a part of something big, dangerous and grand again. He never wanted to watch Sherlock go where he could not follow, he wouldn’t allow that.  
He felt Sherlock’s lips against his temple and it nearly made John sob because it felt so good. Sherlock needed him, he wanted him, and everything was as it should be. John raised his head and kissed him with heated affection. John desperately wanted to make up for all the years they were apart. He wanted to cure every scar on Sherlock’s body and the damage in his own mind. They would heal, as long as they had each other. They stared into one another’s eyes and got lost for a moment, they rested their foreheads together, gasping gently for air.  
“I need to get clean.” John muttered gently as he stroked Sherlock’s soft hair. “Join me?”  
Sherlock nodded and after a soft kiss they both rose and headed for the bathroom. John glanced at the shower nobs and was glad they were a simple design. He twisted the heat high and adjusted the cold nob slightly, allowing the hot water to be dominant since the room was much colder outside of the bed. He stood up and looked to Sherlock who had already shed his pajama pants and stepped toward John. John held to Sherlock’s arms as he brought him close by the hips, their half swollen lengths pressing against each other.  
As they kissed, Sherlock reached down between them and stroked John who released a strained moan. John held to Sherlock’s bum, fondling and keeping them close as they began to attack each other’s lips enthusiastically. Sherlock pressed John into the shower and shut the door behind them, getting him against the glass, stroking him earnestly. They panted, their faces held together, and John moaned out as his cock stood firm and hard in Sherlock’s fist.  
He reached out and touched Sherlock’s in return, hearing a hot sigh release from his lips. He was close to being fully erect, and John pumped him with determination as Sherlock’s hands rose and stroked his face delicately.  
“John!” Sherlock gasped as he thrust against the hand.  
John licked and sucked at his lover’s throat, groaning at how incredible he looked with his dark hair wet and stuck to his skin. He claimed Sherlock with his teeth as he had done the night before. Sherlock groaned loud in pain and pleasure and grabbed John’s hips harshly once he’d pulled away.  
John panted loud, thrusting and making contact with Sherlock hearing him stifle a moan as he bit his lip. Sherlock bent forward, fingers desperately reaching behind John, tracing between his bum and pressing his entrance with yearning. John broke away from him and turned his back, bending forward, offering himself to the breathless detective. His fingers slid on the wet glass and he was grateful to find a supportive bar built across it.  
Sherlock spat in his hand, anxiously pressing his slicked fingers to the fresh willing hole he’d claimed the night before. He buried two fingers in and they were nearly swallowed by John who gasped out, pushing his body back against them. He whispered out Sherlock’s name as the fingers worked inside him.  
“Take me. Take me now…!” John begged.  
With a few more thoughtful inserts of Sherlock’s fingers they were withdrawn and he immediately replaced them with his length. John cried as the pressure stretched what Sherlock’s fingers had not, but his ass was willing. Sherlock lacked some control, John just looked so amazing, and felt incredible, and his entrance felt like it was made for his cock. He jerked greedily, short and fast, grasping to John’s hips tightly. John groaned out, gripping tight to the bar, meeting with Sherlock’s thrusts, his body craving his touch and cock.  
Sherlock leaned forward, his chest sliding across John’s back as he thrust deeper into him. He moved his hand’s to the bar on either side of John’s head and fists and relaxed his thrusts to focus on pleasuring him. John could feel his hard nipples across his back, and as Sherlock tried a new tactic the pleasure came in waves for John. His mouth opened wide as he moaned out, his body rising to stand a bit more. Sherlock followed with him, holding the bar for support and pounding John up against the glass.  
John’s fists withdrew from the bar and clung helplessly to the slick glass wall before him. Sherlock kissed John’s tender scar on his shoulder and the healing bite mark he had placed on him. He reached down with a hand and stroked John generously, and he could tell from John’s cries addressed in his name that he was driving him over the edge. He held his body close with his other arm, feeling his rapid heartbeat from beneath his palm and he nearly sobbed at the heat. John arched back against him and came hard in his hand. His ass squeezed tight around Sherlock as he released and Sherlock’s body gave in as well.  
They gasped and held each other up against the wall, John’s hand squeezing to Sherlock’s that gripped to his chest. Being claimed by Sherlock was an overpowering experience. John couldn’t resist delighting in the sensation of him buried deep in him, and spending his seed. He rested his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and felt the detectives arms surround and hold him close.  
The high was too much and oxygen was hard to collect through the steamy air but it only added to the erotic experience. John felt Sherlock’s limped cock finally withdraw and he suddenly felt empty and incomplete. He heard Sherlock whisper his name as he cradled his spent body in his arms. They stepped back to be submerged by the shower and John noticed the cum he’d spent slide slowly down the slick glass. Sherlock kissed his face gently till John turned his head and met his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~

They washed, dried, and started to get dressed in Sherlock’s room. The sex had been more refreshing than exhausting and John was ready to get some real work done. He pulled on the brief’s Sherlock had lent him, and had to settle for his clothing from yesterday since he hadn’t brought his pack. He peaked outside the window to the street, and the snow was still falling. There were already groups of snow men built but no children to be found. John figured their mothers had brought them inside for lunch. Speaking of which, John was starving.  
He looked to Sherlock who wore a simple shirt and jeans, he’d seen Sherlock dress in those articles before but it still was strange seeing him in anything but a suit. He caught himself looking at Sherlock from head to toe and could have chuckled. It had been so long since he felt this way, and to think he was eyeing up Sherlock Holmes, of all people.  
“So, what work have we got for today?” John asked, smiling at his partner.  
Sherlock looked to John and said, “Nothing but grading mid-term papers.”  
He seemed so nonchalant about this, but John couldn’t help but wince at the idea.  
“Ouch. That’ll definitely take ages.” John stepped over. “You’d better get started.”  
Sherlock grinned in his way and started leaving the room. “Not at all, it takes just a few minutes.”  
John blinked and followed Sherlock out of the room and down the stairs, repeating, “A few minutes?”  
“Yes, I have a routine.” Sherlock drawled out lazily.  
“Oh.” John understood, I mean, this was Sherlock Holmes, it probably took him seconds to read through a paper.  
Sherlock turned to John in the hall. “I’ll work on the grading in the living room, help yourself to what’s in the fridge.”  
Although John was happy to be offered food he gave Sherlock a look. “And what’s in the fridge?”  
With a laugh Sherlock spun on his heel and went to the living room. “I do have some luncheon meat at least, John! Do mind the scalps on the upper shelf though.” He teased.  
John would have laughed as well, but he braced himself as he opened the refrigerator door. There were in fact many types of liquids in different vials and some jars. He saw a bag with some sort of human body part inside of it. He gulped, and was glad he had braced himself.  
He searched one of the closed drawers at the bottom and found the luncheon meat. It was ham, it had been unopened, and only 2 days till it expired. John shook his head and abandoned the fridge with the nearly frozen ham in hand. He found a loaf of bread on the counter and some condiments in the cabinet and went about making a simple sandwich. He figured he could make a run to the Tesco nearby after they finished working.  
John walked to the living room, and ate some of the sandwich as he went. The living room was much more spacious compared to 221B, and a good 3rd of it had been dedicated to Sherlock’s experiments. He had a couch in a corner, and a coffee table that was stacked high with papers and files. John couldn’t tell if they were strictly for the case or from class as well. Sherlock sat with a short stack of papers of his own near his experiments. He was swiftly working through them with a stamp.  
“So I was right.” John finally spoke.  
“About what exactly?” Sherlock asked, his attention not leaving the papers.  
John began to step over. “About the fact that you’re entire life is a mess other than your persona and classroom.”  
“Aw yes, not much has changed there.” Sherlock chuckled. “You seem to have gotten better at observation, John, but you missed a vital deduction yesterday.”  
“And what was that?” He asked, intrigued.  
“That I wasn’t Benedict Cumberbatch, but Sherlock Holmes. It really took you long to figure it out, I was a bit disappointed.”  
John rolled his eyes and clenched a fist. “It has been 2 and half years, Sherlock. You were still dead until 13 hours ago.”  
“Yes. Not good?”  
With an uncontainable smile, John nodded. “… A bit not good.” Finally, he peered over Sherlock’s shoulder and saw him stamping the papers with a horridly bright shade of red, each with the letter F. “Sherlock, what exactly are you doing?”  
Sherlock looked to him. “Grading, John.”  
John’s brows curled back with shocked concern. “But… you haven’t even read the papers!”  
With a shrug, Sherlock continued swiftly cranking through the papers with his stamp as if it was an assembly line. “If you dealt with my students every day, John, you would plainly see that they’re all average minded idiots. There’s no point in reading their work, their grammar alone is horrendous.”  
“Sherlock, no!” John said, grabbing the man’s shoulder, grateful that Sherlock came to a stop. “You can’t treat people like that, especially your students! They’re relying on you to grade them fairly!”  
“But I am.” Sherlock said, a bit confused. “They’re idiots, John, no need to be so concerned.”  
With a sigh, John came to his side and pushed at him. “Move! I will be grading these papers! You… go and experiment or something. This is ridiculous.”  
Sherlock’s dark eyes began to shine as he was given permission to go continue his work and he quickly left the seat, John taking his place with a hard frown.  
“Thank you, John. Thank you!” He stammered as he nearly skipped to the fridge to remove his specimens.  
“Yeah, yeah, don’t mention it.” John rolled his bad shoulder, looking over the amount of work he had in front of him. He closed the red ink pad and shoved it and the stamp aside. Certainly this would take all day, but these students were talented, and John as certain this course was crucial to their future exploits. “I could use a syllabus for these reports, Sherlock.”  
The detective had returned his arms filled with soggy plastic bags and jars and set them delicately on the adjoined tables beside his microscope.  
“Yes, of course.” He said thoughtfully, going to his briefcase and pulling out a packet, handing it to John, then returned to get his experiment in order.  
“Thanks.” John said, reading through the prompt. It was average, clearly Sherlock didn’t believe in his students very much, but John felt differently. He began to read through the stack as Sherlock opened the foul bags and jars in the corner across from him.  
The papers were decent, some had been expertly written, and then there were a couple that nearly made John laugh. They were so used to having Sherlock as an instructor that they would simply write a paragraph, ranting about what a horrid teacher he was, because it really made no difference, he would give them an F either way. He did laugh when they mocked Sherlock’s alias, and how much of a prude he was, because they were spot on with these assumptions.  
“You’re students really do hate you, Sherlock.” John chuckled.  
Sherlock sighed carelessly. “No surprise there.”  
“No, really, you need to at least meet them halfway. You’re being a cruel sod.” He said, looking up to his partner.  
“This is all a temporary position, John, there’s no point.”  
And Sherlock was right, he nearly always was, but this was impacting the students' future, and John decided he would do his best to fix that.  
As he lifted another rude paper and read it he chuckled again. “Ok, I must know, where the hell did the name Benedict Cumberbatch come from?”  
Sherlock grinned as he peaked through his microscope. “It does sound like a fart in the bath, doesn’t it? It was just to spite Mycroft, nothing more.”  
“I see.” John smiled.  
“Speaking of which,” Sherlock muttered aloud, suddenly sitting upright in his seat. “You’ll be needing an alias as well, John.”  
This made John blink in surprise. “Really?”  
“Yes, John. Moriarty’s men are idiots compared to me, but they are still slightly above average. If you begin to work beside me as John Watson it won’t take long to figure out the truth. We have the advantage that it has been 2 and half years so a lot of the original men have moved on since Moriarty’s death, so if I get you an alias we should be alright.”  
John listened, a bit mesmerized by all this, this would be exciting. “Right,” he smiled. “So what were you thinking then? Please don’t give me a… what was it? ‘Fart in the bath’, name?”  
Sherlock smiled and stroked the cut on his bottom lip in thought. “I believe the surname, Freeman, would suit you.”  
“You’re getting symbolic on me now?” John asked with a chuckle and smiled when he received a nod from Sherlock. “Yeah, it’s suitable.”  
“But for a first name.” Sherlock thought, staring off.  
John thought as well and shrugged. “I’ve always liked the name Martin, why not go with that?”  
Sherlock stared at him from across the room thoughtfully and muttered. “Martin… Freeman. Martin Freeman… I suppose it will have to do.”  
John smiled again turning back to the papers. “Then it’s settled.”  
A few more hours passed, and John had become famished. He took the papers and sat them straight up, letting them land on the table a few times to be a bit more uniform. He stood and put them away in a manila file while rubbing his eyes and taking a much needed stretch. Sherlock had only moved a few times from his spot to reorganize his specimens and redistribute chemicals, but was still deeply focused.  
“Well, the grading is done, Sherlock.” He sighed. “I’m going to make a run to the shops, is that alright?”  
“Take my card.” Sherlock instructed flatly, not deviating to look at John.  
John thought about this for a moment, and realized that would be a smart thing to do. He had planned on using his own card, but his real name would have then appeared in the system. The less he used his real name in transaction or conversation, the better. He stepped over to Sherlock’s briefcase and took but a moment to locate the card. It was registered under Sherlock’s alias.  
“Right, do you want anything?” John asked before leaving the room.  
“Perhaps some rubbing alcohol.” Sherlock muttered.  
That made John’s thought’s wander to whiskey and he realized much of his current headache was possibly due to the withdrawals as well as his hunger.  
He nodded. “Ok, I’ll be back.”  
With that, John made his way down the main hall and to the entry way. He shrugged on his coat and hoped it would be enough for the cold outside. He glanced at Sherlock’s coat, and the accessories on the front table, and decided to take his gloves and scarf just for now. Then to John’s surprise a knock was struck against the door. John stood frozen, unsure what to do, he saw a blurred male figure from outside and he was certain they could see his outline as well. He held back his voice and quickly made his way back to the living room.  
He tried to remain calm when saying, “Were you expecting anyone, Sherlock?”  
The dark haired man looked up and to John. “What? No.”  
“There’s someone at the door. Perhaps it’s best you answer.”  
Sherlock stared off quietly for a moment before another knock was made at the door. He pulled a comb and small container from his pants pocket, removing some gel from the container, and with practiced ease swiped it through his messy hair with the comb. Within seconds it was flattened back, and he set the items aside, removing his faux spectacles from his other pocket, and he was Professor Cumberbatch once more. He rose and stepped passed John who now stood in the living room, wondering if it would be best to hide.  
John watched Sherlock open the door and the man on the other side was revealed. It was Corporal Zachary Donavan, a heavy jacket suited on him, along with a scarf. He had at least 8 bags in his hands and he was panting in the cold.  
“H-hello, Professor Cumberbatch.” Zach panted, trying to be professional, despite his laughable appearance.  
“Donovan.” Sherlock muttered, almost to himself, his voice deep and frightfully cold as the boy stood pathetic and half frozen on his doorstep. “Well?”  
“I was ordered to relocate here in hopes that I may be of assistance to you.” Zachary replied, voice becoming a bit more official.  
“Hm.” Sherlock mocked as he tilted his head. “I have more than all the help I need, thank you.” With that he shut the door in the boy’s face and started heading back to the living room.  
“Sherlock, that was Corporal Donavon.” John informed.  
Sherlock looked to him in surprise. “You’ve met him?”  
“Yeah, just yesterday, Mycro-“  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock interrupted with a spiteful laugh. “He just cannot keep his nose out of anything, and now this.”  
“I don’t know, Sherlock. The boy seems decent. Maybe he could help us.”  
“Like I said, I have /more/ than all the help I need. I do have you after all.” He huffed stubbornly.  
John couldn’t retain a sigh and looked to him. “This is different though, Sherlock. Domestic terrorism, bombs, this isn’t just another case.”  
“We’ve dealt with such trivial before, John.”  
“I still say this is different. We could use all the help we can get, especially without Lestrade being here.”  
With that, John made his way to front door and opened it. Zachary hadn’t moved from the spot and looked to John with a new hope shining in his eyes.  
“C-captain.” He gasped, clearly inwardly beating himself up since he couldn’t properly salute with the bags in his hands.  
John smiled. “At ease, and please, you don’t have to be so official with me.” John stepped forward and grabbed some bags from Zach’s hands to relieve him. “Come on in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual references
> 
> Sherlock's West Kensington Flat on Earl's Court:  
> http://i191.photobucket.com/albums/z229/kattsue/sherhouse.png
> 
> Sherlock's current hair style:  
> http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m92jimSucw1rbbunko1_500.png
> 
> And his alias appearance was based off of Ben in Inseperable:  
> http://f0.bcbits.com/z/97/33/973393951-1.jpg


	6. If Inconvenient, Come Anyway part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> www.pocketgingerbatch.tumblr.com

John stepped into the kitchen with Corporal Donovan and they set the bags on the dining room table. Zachary unzipped his large winter coat and set it aside with his scarf and gloves. He was dressed less formerly today, in jeans and a thin maroon jumper, his boots damp from trudging through the fresh snow. He warmed up quickly, and didn’t complain of the cold. John supposed it was from his training, you don’t complain about much after experiencing a military boot camp. The boy began to sift through the plastic bags and John couldn’t help but be curious what all of this was as he searched his own.  
“So what is all this then?” John asked as he removed a can of peas.  
“Mr. Holmes thought I should do the shopping for you both for now, considering the circumstances.” He explained, continuing to empty another bag with more food.  
“Circumstances?” He asked, his brow arching judgmentally.  
Zach looked to him, and John noticed his eyes were a bright hazel. He was darker skinned than his sister, and his hair was buzzed short. He was young, still had some baby fat on his cheeks, but his chin and the sides of his face were starting to become more tone. “It would be much more logical for you to stay out of sight during the weekend, and make your appearance at the beginning of the week.”  
“Logical?” Sherlock’s deep voice mocked as he stepped into the room from the opposite doorway. He grasped and examined a box of instant noodles, one of his nostrils flaring with distaste.  
John saw a change in Zach’s demeanor as Sherlock entered the room and discussion. It wasn’t disgust or judgment in Zach’s eyes, although John had expected it from Sally’s younger sibling, he seemed more uneasy than anything. It looked as if he felt intimidated by Sherlock. He could tell they had worked together before; perhaps Zach had been a part of this entire operation.  
“Yes. It will be much less careless to introduce Doctor Watson to the LAMDA on Monday. You can continue with your regular class and have him be a fellow instructor.” Zachary explained to Sherlock calmly but with assertion.  
“Wait, what? You’re making me a teacher’s aid?” John asked Sherlock with confused anxiety.  
Both John and Zachary looked to Sherlock who grew a deep sarcastic frown on his face and breathed a heavy sigh from his nose. “Yes, stupidity clearly runs through your genetic pool, Donovan.”  
The boy’s brow furrowed and he looked back to the bags, continuing to unload the contents and organize them.  
John wanted to snort, but he stayed focused on the topic at hand, “I thought I was going to be investigating. What good could I do being stuck in the same classroom with you all day? And what’s this?” John opened a bag filled with new men’s clothing. Jumpers, trousers and shirts, even a spare pair of shoes.  
“Which question would you prefer I answer first?” Sherlock asked sarcastically as he broke open a box of chocolate biscuits and chewed on one.  
“I can at least answer the second, Doctor.” Zachary chimed in. “This is your new apparel for the investigation, though Mr. Holmes made sure to remain in your usual fashion sense. They’ll work well for your alias.”  
John pulled the shirts and jumpers out, they really were handsome, and the material was soft and well-tailored. “I thought I had brought enough clothing in my pack, but these will do nicely.” He felt himself smile out of impulse. He could never turn down free clothing.  
Sherlock stepped over toward John and began to inspect the gifts with scathing judgment in his eyes. “Not enough jumpers?”  
“Never.” John teased. “These are very nice, don’t you think?”  
He stalled when he saw a crooked grin appear on Sherlock’s face. That was never a good sign.  
“What is it?” John asked, concerned.  
“Nothing, Mycroft really does have respect for your fashion sense.” He grinned, lifting out one of the jumpers and turning it to John and Zach.  
John’s eyes widened and his hair stood up on end, he had never seen a more horrific jumper in his life! It was thin, cotton, dull, brown plaid covered with a pile of black kittens. It had blue googly eyes attached to each of the kitten’s faces. John felt his cheeks redden the longer he stared at it and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of John’s face. John was certain this was the first Mycroft had made Sherlock honestly laugh in a long time. He turned away and could hear Zachary softly laugh as well, in spite of himself.  
“I don’t know, it is rather flattering Doctor. Those kitten’s eyes just… draw me in.” Zach added innocently.  
“It’s Freeman now.” John stated flatly, carrying an arm full of cans to a cupboard.  
“What was that?” Zachary asked, dropping the jokes.  
John piled in the cans, attempting to organize them in some fashion. “My alias, it’s Martin Freeman. I suppose it will be professor as well?” He asked, leaning back around the cupboard door to give Sherlock a look.  
Sherlock nodded lightly, setting the jumper down on the table. “It’s playing it safe, and you’ll be able to remain close to me without trouble.”  
Zachary joined John in the kitchen and began to store and organize another shelf with dry goods. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” He smiled.  
“If someone wanted your opinion you would have been invited.” Sherlock mocked once more, stepping out of the dining room to return to his experiment.  
It went quiet in the kitchen, though John and Zach both remained at work with storing the goods he brought.  
“Hey, Zach?” John asked gently.  
The boy stalled and looked around the cupboard door to John. “Yes, sir?”  
“Don’t mind the brainless genius, alright? He really means no harm.” He said with a smile.  
Zachary stared at John for a moment and then closed the cabinet in thought. “Don’t worry about me, sir, he doesn’t bother me one bit. I know this is all repercussion from his history with my older sister.”  
John gathered more goods from the table, stowing them away in another cabinet. “That may be a crucial reason.” He supported; voice a bit cold as he reflected on his own history with Sally Donovan.  
“Though, I hope you understand I mean no harm, sir.” Zach stated earnestly, turning to John. “I am not my sister.”  
With a pause, John looked to Zachary. His heart ached in an odd way, he was touched by this boy, although he clearly understood little of their real history with Sally Donovan, he was desperately trying to create a clean slate for his family’s association with Sherlock Holmes.  
John smiled fondly. “I can already tell, and I appreciate it.”  
Zachary dug through a paper bag and approached John with a bottle of whiskey. He gingerly handed it to him. John reached out and grasped it from Zach’s hands. He just noticed that his head had started to ache and at the sight of the bottle it slowly began to subside.  
“Oh, ta, mate.” John thanked joyfully. He reached into a cabinet for an empty cup, trying to not come off eager, although he was, and poured himself a glass.  
“Mr. Holmes… felt you could use it.” Zachary said, his eyes seeming sad as he watched John turn towards him with the filled glass.  
John looked to the boy, and leaned up against the counter. A pain filled his heart and he looked down at the cursed dark brown liquid thoughtfully. He didn’t want to need this, it was poison, and just thinking about Harry, and the damage this liquid had done…  
“I just have to ease off of it slowly.” John said softly, but they were empty words. He gulped down some of it, and from the look in Zach’s eyes, John knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

 

John made a quick dinner with Zachary, and as they settled on the living room couch together, John could tell Sherlock was irritable. John’s newfound friendship with Zach must have created some jealousy in Sherlock. Nevertheless, they enjoyed their simple meal and Zach briefed him on some of the most current developments. They had been focusing in on a particular group of students, four boys that were in their 3rd year of study.  
Although they had a clean record and excelled in their studies, their activities outside of school had been less than innocent. They each lived very private lives, spending most nights in, and only mingling with one another on certain weekends of the month. Two had been purchasing odd chemicals and machinery lately, and they were certain there would be another bombing at the hands of these boys.  
“What are you waiting for then?” John asked with disbelief. “Have them arrested.”  
“There is no solid evidence yet. Certainly we have a few suspicious purchases, but that’s it. There’s not enough evidence to receive a warrant.” Zachary reasoned as he ate his food.  
“Oh I’m sure we could bypass the evidence. This is national security, and we have Mycroft, why hasn’t anything been done?” He huffed in frustration.  
“I agree with you, John, but if you do remember, Mycroft /is/ the British government. He will always follow protocol, even if it risks public safety.” Sherlock added as he stared through his microscope.  
John’s irritation peeked. “As if following protocol worked so well last time! He let Moriarty go and I lost everything! I can’t believe this. I had hoped he’d learned a lesson, but I suppose I just have too much faith in some people.”  
“That also brings up another fact. Moriarty was originally Professor Moriarty.” Said Sherlock.  
“What? He was a professor?”  
Sherlock pulled away from the microscope and faced John and Zach. “Yes. Professor James Moriarty. You wouldn’t have known because he’d wiped out all of his records under his true name, but I dug everything up. He was a professor at LAMDA for a time, which should explain why we are investigating this campus.”  
John nodded. “Yes… it’s making sense now.”  
Sherlock stared at John for a moment and slightly looked to Zachary before sighing thoughtfully. “I can’t think of a more convenient moment than now. Do you want to know how I did it, John? How I faked my death?”  
It went quiet before John earnestly spoke. “Yes. I do.”  
He set his faux spectacles aside and stood up. He didn’t even need a moment to collect his thoughts before he began to explain. “I met Moriarty on the rooftop. Everything was planned ahead of time, every word, every movement… I had him John. He was so eager to share his /brilliance/ and I encouraged it, allowing him to believe that I had fallen short. Whilst he spilled every detail of his schemes, I had my phone at the ready. I held it at my back and recorded his every word. /That/ was my note John, though Mycroft followed my instructions exactly and kept you in the dark. I had hoped you would have caught on, but…”  
John stared up at Sherlock in fascination that slowly shifted to shame. Sherlock looked down for a moment before carrying on.  
“I had the homeless network working below the building. I became the stage and they were my actors. I positioned one below to sit on the bench, and he held my perfectly deceptive corpse beside him as I took my time before the jump.”  
“But why, Sherlock? Why did you jump?!” John demanded out of the blue, tears appearing in his eyes. It still hurt; the fact that he was deceived, and left out in the cold. How could Sherlock not trust him?  
This caused Sherlock to pause for a moment. “Moriarty had… three men positioned to assassinate you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He had found my weaknesses, and used them against me. Had I not jumped, all three of you would have been swiftly executed. There was no way out, John, trust me, I have thought on it multiple times. To sacrifice myself, even temporarily, was the only way to save you all.”  
John wiped the tears from his cheeks, and a wave of relief washed over his heart. All those years, he desperately needed to know why, and now he knew. Sherlock had truly given it all up for him.  
“But Moriarty hadn’t deduced all of my weaknesses. He had left Molly out of the equation, and this aided in my suicide. She was crucial to prove my death. She provided the corpse and disguised it to my likeness nearly perfectly.”  
This shook up John in many strange ways. He had kept in contact with Molly, all these years, he’d even stayed with her for a time, and she kept all of this from him. Not to mention the fact that he had touched that body, a body of some poor sod, a stranger.  
“I had a point on the ground that I had to land on in order to survive. I had an old client who worked for the London rubbish collection move his vehicle to the block and position himself just beside a white chalked square on the pavement. That was the target, he inflated a secure rescue mattress and as soon as I landed I climbed into the back of the truck with the inflatable and we escaped, unbeknowest. My body was placed on the cement and staged exactly as I instructed.”  
He looked to John who appeared to have calmed and was staring at his lover with fascination.  
“You hadn’t seen my landing, John. The building I instructed you to stand before had blocked your vision, as well as the vehicle. To make absolutely certain, I had a homeless member knock you over as he passed by, on a cycle I believe. This gave me what extra time I might have needed to escape.” Sherlock didn’t seem proud to admit the final details of his suicide, but he confessed them nonetheless.  
John stared at Sherlock, and the room was deathly quiet for a time. “So…” he breathed out. “What I… touched, it… it wasn’t you, it was another man’s corpse?”  
Sherlock nodded heavily. “Yes. It was all a magic trick.” He added halfheartedly.  
He pondered on Sherlock’s statement for a moment before letting out a breath of an empty laugh through his nose. “No… no, Sherlock. It wasn’t magic at all. It was just a trick. A cheap, sick, uninspired trick… and I fell for every bit of it.” He coldly smiled and looked down. “All of it… it wasn’t brilliant, or fantastic, let alone genius. It was cruel and unreasonable.”  
“John, I-“  
“No.” John spat and he stood, approaching Sherlock with blind hatred in his eyes. “No, Sherlock. I will never forgive you for this. I thought I could, I really did, but you could have found a way! Don’t you dare lie to me and say there was absolutely no other way out!”  
The tears began to slide down his cheeks again and all Sherlock could do was watch his John slowly crumble before him.  
“Did you know I would suffer without you?! Did you know what this would do to me?! What I would become?! Jesus… Jesus! This is still… everything you’ve just told me, it’s not helped me the way I had hoped. I expected something miraculous… but this was your lamest deduction yet.”  
Sherlock reached to touch John but the hand was violently swatted away, and a finger was pointed at his face.  
“You are supposed to be brilliant, Sherlock! You boast about your genius… but since being in your presence again, hearing all of this from you and Mycroft’s mouth. It’s all sophomoric stupidity! I refuse to believe that you couldn’t find another way! You’ve been selfish. The worst part of this, ALL of it… is that you left me behind! Do you understand that, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock stared at John, attempting to appear unshaken but John could see the honest hurt and regret in his blue eyes. He spoke deep and soft, Zachary almost couldn’t hear what he said, but he let the words fall from his lips calm and slow for John to hear. “Did I know you would suffer without me? Yes… because I suffered… every second, without you, John. Did I know what this would do to you? No… and neither did I know what it would do to me. I couldn’t properly think, observe or deduce for the first 6 months, because my heart… you were missing from my side. Did I know what you would become? I had a vague idea… because I saw the part of me that belonged to you fade away… and that was the best part of me. You are what makes me whole. Losing you, from my side, was my real sacrifice, John. If I hadn’t done it you would have been killed… and there would have been no way of changing that. I gave us a chance, because you’re worth it, John… and you’re all I’ve ever wanted and will ever need in my life.”  
They stood still and kept eyes locked. The tears continued to fall from John’s lashes and Sherlock refused to look away. However correct his deductions had been at the fall, he had still done so much wrong, and even though he suffered as he stared into those pain filled eyes, he felt he deserved this punishment. John was the first to retract his gaze and he huffed out a half restrained sob as he looked to the ground. Sherlock caught his chin in his palm before he turned away, and he gently stroked a thumb across his tear stained cheek. John brought his body close to Sherlock’s and they held to each other tight, and John had to bite his lip to refrain from making more noise, he let out heavy breathes instead.  
“I knew you would never forgive me…” Sherlock whispered to John. “and it’s alright. I’m willing to spend the rest of my life returning what life you’ve lost, because of my mistakes…”  
“Sherlock.” John breathed out heavily between tears as he gripped to his collar.  
“I love you, John.” He whispered, pressing his face to the side of John’s neck.  
Zachary carried his and John’s plates to the kitchen to clean, leaving the two men alone. John caught his breath against Sherlock’s chest and gently pulled away, rubbing the tears from his face with his sleeve.  
“I don’t understand… how I could love a person that I hate so damn much.” He chuckled to himself as he sniffed. “You really are a bastard. We are far from a normal couple, Sherlock.”  
“That’s alright.” Sherlock said flatly. “I don’t think either of us were ever meant to be normal.”  
John stroked Sherlock’s pale cheek and was comforted by his hand laying on his. John regretted many of the words he used to confront Sherlock. He allowed himself to say so many hurtful things, but they had to be said. If he had held on to the fact that he saw Sherlock as nothing but a moronic con, and not told him the error of his actions, John doubted their relationship, or whatever this knew familiar was, would last very long. He would not be with Sherlock if he wasn’t able to be honest with him, and he expected nothing less from his lover.  
“There’s only one way I could ever forgive you.” John said, voice tense. Sherlock met his eyes, and listened, a bit of hope showing in his face. “You have to swear to me that you’ll never leave me again.”  
The hope faded swiftly from Sherlock’s expression, and turned grave. He gripped the hand that was on his cheek desperately and shut his eyes, as if he was in an excruciating amount of pain. He wanted John’s warmth, his love, his eternal forgiveness, but they had remained steadfast and honest men. Sherlock could not lie, even if it destroyed them. “I… can’t.”  
John stared, the only noise in the apartment was a soft trickle from the kitchen sink, but John couldn’t even hear that. He had gone numb and cold, and it seemed as if his heart had stopped beating all together. He tried to pull his hand back, but Sherlock kept a firm grip on it, his eyes remaining shut tight. He pulled the hand to his face with his other hand, kissing John’s palm desperately. John would have none of it, and the numbness in his soul turned into a white hot rage as he swiftly withdrew the hand and slapped it hard across Sherlock’s face.  
Sherlock stood still then, his face in shock and blank, and his cheek quickly turned red from the harsh contact. John wanted to say something, but there was so much and none of it would help. Right at this moment he didn’t want to hear that perfect voice or look at that gorgeous face, he just needed to walk away. John's hand stung, and he regretted slapping Sherlock the way he had regretted punching him just yesterday, but he couldn't believe Sherlock's decision. To hell with logic, John was ready to die for this man, but he couldn't even promise to stay at his side in return. John limped passed the stunned man and grabbed his bottle of whiskey with a shaking fist, retreating to their room for the night.


End file.
